


Stay for Me

by Itsallfine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Divorce, Drug Withdrawal, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Parentlock, Series 4 does not exist, Sharing a Bed, no infidelity, post-tab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-10-15 06:43:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10551824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/pseuds/Itsallfine
Summary: 221B was packed into boxes and bins, and that was when John knew,reallyknew—Sherlock had planned to be gone forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Geometry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geometry/gifts).



> Set immediately post-TAB, assumes the plane scenes were real. Series 4 does not exist. The show plays fast and loose with its medical stuff, but I’ve tried to be at least -slightly- more accurate here while attempting to explain what we saw on-screen. I’ve seen Narcan be used in person (unfortunately), and it really is kind of miraculous how someone who was not breathing and inches from death can suddenly be up walking and talking. That said, I’m not a medical expert, so take everything with a grain of salt.
> 
> Please note that this fic assumes Sherlock's drug use on the plane was a suicide attempt. Proceed with caution accordingly and please take care of yourself.
> 
> This fic was commissioned by the wonderful Geometry, who gave me an excellent prompt and the push to write in a time period I’ve always wanted to explore. I’m grateful. <3 And thanks due to Wiscolina for the beta read as well.

  
  
He would not stay for me, and who can wonder?   
  He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.   
I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,   
  And went with half my life about my ways.  
  
\- A.E. Housman (1859–1936)

 

* * *

 

 

_Naloxone, also known by the brand name Narcan, is a safe and effective medication that can reverse the effects of opioid overdose. It attaches to the same parts of the brain that receive heroin and other opioids, and it blocks the opioids for 30-90 minutes to reverse the respiratory depression that would otherwise lead to death from overdose._

 

John’s mind drifted in the cool, calm space of crisis mode. Measure, evaluate, diagnose—Sherlock’s hand, cupped in his, upturned, two fingers on his pulse point, hands clammy. Mary’s foot nudged John’s from where she sat belted in across from him, but he ignored her, counting heart beats and watching the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest. Respiration slightly depressed. Thirty-five minutes since the last dose.

“Mycroft,” John snapped, breaking the tense silence. “Another.”

Mycroft reached into his inside jacket pocket, withdrew another auto-injector, and passed it to John without a word. John pressed the injector against the meat of Sherlock’s thigh and depressed the trigger as soon as they stopped at a red light. Sherlock took a gasping breath and let his head fall back against the seat as the heroin-morphine-oxycontin was violently ejected from his brain’s opioid receptors. _Up to five minutes after intramuscular injection for full effect._ Not good enough.

“I want more delivered to Baker Street within thirty minutes,” John ordered. “Vials, not auto-injectors. Intravenous injection is better.”

Mycroft said nothing, but took out his phone and tapped out a brief message.

John’s eyes scanned Sherlock from top to bottom, then again, and again.

 

_Patient will appear functional immediately after the shot is administered, including restored respiratory functioning, talking, and walking under their own power, but should remain under medical observation for serious side effects. Withdrawal symptoms often appear within minutes. In some cases, such as after taking a massive dose or using long-acting opioids like methadone, the patient might need another naloxone dose and longer medical observation. Always watch the person after they receive a naloxone dose for signs of continued overdose._

 

Sherlock stared out the window, supposedly lost in his deductions about Moriarty, but John could see in the pinched skin around his eyes, the slight tightening of his mouth, that he was fighting something— _common withdrawal symptoms include nausea, dizziness, muscle aches, sweating, irritability, anxiety, exhaustion_ —though Sherlock kept himself well controlled, as always. John saw the scrawl of Sherlock’s list traced in the dampness under his too-bright eyes, the limpness of his limbs.

Lucky. John hated to think of it that way. Cocaine, of course, a few others, but liberally mixed with several opioids. A lethal cocktail, but one that could be stopped by the right intervention at the right time. Lucky.

Lucky.

He wrenched his focus away from the thought before it could take root— _suicide, suicide, suicide_ —and retreated behind his medical detachment. Measure, evaluate, diagnose.

 

_Naloxone only reverses the effects of opioids such as heroin, methadone, morphine, opium, codeine, or hydrocodone. It does not counter the effect of other types of drugs, such as benzodiazepines (drugs including diazepam, midazolam, or alprazolam), antihistamines (like pheniramine or phenergan), alcohol, or other sedatives (drugs such as phenobarbital) or stimulants such as cocaine and—_

 

“John.” Mary’s sharp voice cut through his focus like a shrill siren. He acknowledged her with a hum, but kept his eyes on Sh—on the patient. The patient’s fingers twitched in John’s hand, and he looked up—cool, pale eyes locked onto his, then slid ever so slightly to the side, indicating. John held his gaze, shook his head ever so slightly, dropping his eyes back to his two fingers on Sherlock’s wrist.

Counting heartbeats.

_(Sherlock's hand in his, clasped, held, already dying by then? A hand shake—more than that, bare palm against palm, lingering. Holding hands with a dead man.)_

The car slid to a stop outside 221 Baker Street, and John leapt out on his side, then rushed around to the other side to catch hold of Sherlock’s arm as he stumbled out of the car. Yes, the opioids were taken care of for the moment, but cocaine was short acting, probably wearing off about now, withdrawal kicking in. The next few hours would be—

“John.”

Mary again. Harsh, insistent. There in body but little more than a phantom presence in John’s mind.

“Sherlock will need to be monitored closely until the danger has passed. Go home, Mary.”

“Your child is currently stomping on my organs, you know.”

She waited. When no reaction came, she cut deeper.

“Are you planning to drop everything for him every time he needs you once the baby’s here, too? You’ve missed almost the entire pregnancy already.”

“Well, who’s fault is that?” he spat before he could stop himself. He closed his eyes, took a breath. Forgiveness. Right. Not bloody likely. He hadn’t lasted a week.

“Mycroft, please make sure Mary gets home safely. Mary, I’ll ring you later.”

Mycroft would read between the lines. Mycroft would know.

_I can’t do this. Watch her. Please, watch her closely._

“This is ridiculous, John. He’ll be fine. He’s done this plenty of times bef—”

“Enough!”

And suddenly they were back in time, six months, standing together in the sitting room of 221B with John furious, Sherlock near death, and Mary a suspicious blend of contrite and cold. They’d always be stuck in an endless loop of that moment, John thought. As long as there was Sherlock, John would never be able to stay away. As long as Sherlock needed him, he would always be the priority. And Mary would always be a danger.

“Mycroft, I want that naloxone here in twenty minutes,” was all he said, then slung Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder and helped him to the door without a backward glance. Behind them, the car doors slammed and the engine revved as it pulled away.  

Sherlock, remarkably, stayed silent through the entire exchange, which was cause for great concern in and of itself. Sweat stood out on his forehead, and John felt the start of tremors in the arm around his shoulders. Withdrawal symptoms definitely manifesting. Time to get to a bed.

“Where are your keys?” he murmured to Sherlock as they reached the door. Sherlock reached a shaking hand into his trouser pocket and withdrew his keyring, the metal clinking faintly with each shiver. John took them from him with gentle fingers, automatically flipping to the correct key and unlocking the front door.

“Let’s get you to bed. The next few hours won’t be fun.”

Sherlock snorted. “Yes, John, I have been through this before, you know.”

John tightened his hold around Sherlock’s waist and fought down a surge of anger. “Probably best not to remind me of that at the moment.”

Sherlock was quiet as they took the first few steps, then murmured: “It’ll be a nice change to not do it alone, though.”

John tightened his hold again, for an entirely different reason. _Keep it together._

They made it to the first floor landing with Sherlock swaying on his feet, half asleep already. John guided him through the sitting room door with his eyes on Sherlock’s dragging steps and quiet, whispered encouragement on his lips. Once through the door, he looked up to take in the welcoming sight of 221B, his home up until seven days ago, the home of his heart, his—

John froze.

His heart: stuttered, beat.

Broke.

There were boxes, everywhere.

_For charity. Rubbish. Sell. To Mummy. To Mycroft. To JW._

A life, sorted and packed. The furniture, huddled like silent ghosts in the bare flat. Every bit of clutter, of life, of _them_ , tucked away in taped up boxes. No lab equipment, no files, papers, illegally-kept police evidence; no dishes on the shelves in the kitchen, no kettle on the counter. Sherlock’s violin, sealed up in its case and resting atop a box marked _Sheet Music._ No letters stabbed into the mantle. No art on the walls. No skull.

A pained moan startled John out of his daze, and he turned to check on Sherlock—but Sherlock stared back, observing his reaction, his expression carefully blank. John’s vision blurred, the tightness in his throat forcing out another horrid keening sound, and all his barriers broke, letting the thoughts spill out.

_Not coming back. Never see you again. Six months at the outset. Suicide. Suicide. Suicide._

No.

A shiver wracked Sherlock’s body beside him, and John pulled it all in. Tucked it away. Wrapped it tight with gauze and white tape, made a cast for his heart to hold the pieces together. Not now. Not the time.

Be a doctor.

Be a soldier.

John closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, balled his fists, took several hard breaths.

Stood up straight.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

 

* * *

 

John stared at the stripped down bed as Sherlock retched quietly in the adjoining bathroom.

Somehow the bare bed was the worst of it all. The sitting room had been the core of their life together, something that had been wrecked and crumbling for years, but the bed—it was the only part of the flat that was completely about Sherlock. If the last bed in a flat was packed up, then it was well and truly vacant.

John couldn’t stand the sight of it.

Sheets. Pillows. _Do something._

A stack of boxes against the far wall seemed a promising place to start. He tore at the tape sealing the nearest one shut and ripped the flaps of the box open. Clothes, Sherlock’s fine suits folded up and marked for charity in Mycroft’s own handwriting.

John tasted bile in the back of his throat.

Next box: awards, certificates, trophies John had never seen. Where had they been hidden? Fencing, boxing, academic awards, two framed degrees from Cambridge. A whole other piece of Sherlock that John had never been privileged to know.

_You never asked. You should have asked._

Another box: a duvet and pillow covers. He set them aside.

Another box: socks, all mixed together with expensive boxer briefs in dark solid colors, no indexing or order at all. John resealed the box before he could think too hard about it.

Finally. Sheets and pillows, soft and fine. Fitted sheet first, stretched over the bare mattress. Top sheet next. Smooth it out. Hospital corners.

A clatter from the bathroom shocked John out of his focused reverie.

“Sherlock, you okay?” he shouted, panic pushing his voice high and tight. He rushed to the door, his eyes on Sherlock’s vague figure behind the frosted glass.

“Fine. Just… looking for my toothbrush.”

The water ran, and John backed off, his heart racing. Back to the task at hand. _Give him space_.

Duvet, horribly wrinkled from being forced into a too-small box, over the bed with the left side folded down. Pillows in their slip cases, three of them, still carrying the faint indescribable scent of a warm, sleepy Sherlock. The door to the bathroom opened as John arranged the pillows on the bed, precisely as Sherlock had always kept them during the months of recovery after his gunshot. John turned to find Sherlock, pale and trembling, his shirt half unbuttoned, leaning against the door frame.

“I couldn’t—” he started, but John swept in before he could finish. He guided Sherlock to the bed, sat him down on the edge, and set to work with brisk efficiency. Shoes and socks off. Cuffs at wrists undone. His fingers stumbled over the straining buttons at Sherlock’s chest, but he pushed past the heat in his cheeks and let his hands follow the trail to the bottom, let them smooth over strong shoulders to push the fabric off. He couldn’t help but press a protective palm to Sherlock’s bullet scar for a brief moment before exerting a gentle pressure.

“Lie back,” he said, cupping a hand behind Sherlock’s shoulder and easing him down, feeling the tremors rack his lean frame. Steeling himself, he brought his hands to the front of Sherlock’s trousers, flicked open the clasp and drew down the zipper. Swift, businesslike. Detached. He slid the fine fabric down Sherlock’s long legs and folded the trousers, then helped Sherlock wiggle his way under the duvet.

All pretense of wellness was gone. The naloxone had helped, had held Sherlock’s facade in place for nearly an hour, but here, between the two of them in the empty shell of their shared home, Sherlock shook and sweated, pleaded with silent, pained eyes. John sat on the edge of the bed, brushed the damp curls off Sherlock’s forehead, and Sherlock curled onto his side, curving around John’s hip and leaning his forehead into John’s thigh with a strangled whisper.

"John..."

“I’ve got you,” John murmured, running a hand over Sherlock’s shuddering form. “We’ll get through this.”

Sherlock fell into a restless sleep after only a few short minutes, his breaths puffing gently against John’s jeans. John took his pulse one last time for reassurance, then forced himself to back away from Sherlock and slip from the room. _Be productive. Help._

But back in the sitting room, it all came pressing in again. The stacked and labeled boxes, the space positively cavernous without all the clutter, all of it beat at the doors to his mind, but his brain refused to comprehend the implications. He stood for several long moments, staring unseeingly at the bare flat, until the sound of tread on the stairs shook him back to awareness.

Mycroft entered the flat and handed John a pharmacy bag, then sat in Sherlock’s chair without invitation. John sat on the couch, his palms braced against his forehead, eyes squeezed shut until he could finally make the words come.

“He wasn’t coming back.”

A pause.

“No. He was expected to last six months at most.”

John nodded against the hard press of his palms. “A suicide mission.”

“An exile.”

“An execution,” John snapped, the suffocating weight in his chest forcing the words down into roughness. His hands fell away from his face, and he clenched his fists, shut his eyes, swallowed hard.

“A price had to be paid, Doctor,” Mycroft said, not unkindly. “He was offered options. This was the one he chose.”

John covered his mouth with one hand and looked away. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the tumble of dust particles with nothing to settle on.

“It wasn’t worth it,” he finally said.

Mycroft hummed in agreement. “And yet, Sherlock has never much valued his own life. Especially not when measured against yours.”

And with that, Mycroft swept out of the room, his umbrella tapping once on the landing on the way out, as John stared into the space he’d just occupied.

Boxes piled high. Bare furniture, wiped clean. Empty bookshelves.

And a note tacked to John’s chair, scrawled in Sherlock’s own hand.

_Offer to JHW_

John couldn’t breathe.

His chest cracked, spilled gasps and pain and surging sore heat behind his eyes as he stumbled through the kitchen, back to Sherlock’s bedroom, to Sherlock, to _Sherlock_.

Sherlock, whose respiration was dipping worryingly low again, whose face was pinched with pain even in sleep, who shook and shivered despite the blankets.

_Hold it together. He’s done everything for you. Everything, everything, the fall, the shot, the wedding, the fire. Get it together and do this for him._

John took one last ragged breath and dropped the prescription bag still clutched in his hand onto the bedside table. Mycroft had thought to include a needle and sterile wipes, thankfully, because John couldn’t quite bring himself to check that the needles in his spare medkit were still there. He took Sherlock’s right arm and rubbed at the crook of his elbow with the alcohol wipe, his eyes tracing constellations between old injection sites and new. Sherlock stirred, cracked his eyes half open, but didn’t fight John as he palpated the area, filled the needle, and slipped it into Sherlock’s vein with whatever scraps of cool proficiency he could muster. Sherlock sighed, then groaned as the naxolone took effect once again, his respiration returning to normal but the withdrawal symptoms intensifying.

Before long, he drifted back into a restless sleep.

His task done, John let out a long breath, set down the needle and let his competence and strength and professionalism all bleed out of him, slip between the cracks in the floor, sap the strength from his legs and and his heart. His knees hit the floorboards at Sherlock’s bedside as if kneeling at church, and his forehead dropped to his clasped hands, propped on the edge of the bed near Sherlock’s too-pale hand.

_Forgive me. Forgive me. I’ve been selfish. I was angry. I was afraid. Please, forgive me._

And it was the most natural and necessary thing in the world to drag himself to the other side of the bed, to crawl in, curl around, to lay atop the covers and hold vigil.

And when, after two hours, Sherlock’s breathing stayed steady and strong, John allowed his eyes to fall shut and let oblivion rush in to fill all the aching, hollow places inside him.

Together, they slept.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to wiscolina and scc9724 for the quick beta read!
> 
> EDIT: I got a copyright complaint about the poem I originally used for this chapter, but it's freely available to read online [right here](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/embrace). Check it out if you think the poems enhance the mood of the story.

 

 

Poem: [The Embrace](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/embrace) by Mike Doty 

 

* * *

 

John woke to a strangled cry and the heavy thump of a forehead against his breastbone. Sherlock was curled against him, face pressed into John’s shirt as his body trembled, whimpering half-intelligible protestations at some unseen threat. The blankets were shoved to the end of the bed, evidence of Sherlock’s unconscious, thrashing efforts to seek a protective presence.

John’s heart ached.

_He is alive, and we are okay._

“Sherlock,” he murmured, rubbing a hand over quaking ribs. “Sherlock, wake up.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he lurched back just far enough to let his wild, panicked gaze settle on John’s face.

“John,” he breathed.

“Right here,” John answered, continuing the slow, rhythmic stroke over Sherlock’s side.

Then Sherlock tensed.

John saw the exact moment he shifted from half-asleep and panicked back into the armored, distant skin he wore in the daytime. He pulled all that vulnerability back in, tucked it away, though his body betrayed him. His eyes darted first over John, then over the entire room, sweep after sweep. His respiration increased, and his pulse visibly sped in the fluttering of his carotid artery.

Anxiety. Panic.

 

_Feelings of depression, anxiety or irritability are a normal part of cocaine withdrawal, a backlash response to the euphoria brought on by the drug. Although these feelings are often intense during acute withdrawal, they tend to pass once the initial acute withdrawal phase is over. Anxiety-induced nightmares often lead to interrupted sleep in the first two days._

 

“Sherlock,” John began, but Sherlock shook his head and backed further away, retreating to the opposite side of the bed.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Sorry.”

And he trembled. Sweated. Studied John with wide, watchful eyes as he gathered his scraps and tied them tight, hid them away.

_This man has done everything for you. And he is afraid of you._

John couldn’t blame him.

_I’m not gay—don’t know how those rumors got started—I don’t mind—the two people I love most—I’m not gay—we’re not a couple—not gay—not—_

So many misdirections, lies, half-truths and omissions.

He’d been so selfish.

It was different, now, somehow, lying next to Sherlock with the knowledge, with a head full of packed-up boxes and barren shelves. Empty of possessions, certainly, but heavy all the same. Filled to bursting with evidence of Sherlock’s devotion, his sacrifices. His…

What did it mean? In precise terms, not the vague unspoken dialect they’d shared for years. What _precisely_ did it mean?

John reached out, slowly so as not to startle Sherlock, and brushed the sweaty curls off his forehead. Sherlock tracked the movement with his eyes, then let them fall shut when skin made contact—feather-light, tentative.

_Be precise._

When Sherlock relaxed fractionally, John returned his hand to Sherlock’s side. Moved up, down. Okay. Still okay. He drew him closer, until they were as close as their bodies had drifted in sleep, and murmured sweetly in his ear.

“Hey, you’re fine, okay? You’re fine. Talk to me. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Sherlock echoed, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

“Sherlock.”

A pause, then Sherlock burrowed closer.

“Cold. Hot. Nauseated. Everything hurts.” He hesitated. “Cravings. And my brain is… separated. Drifty.”

At the last, he waved a hand, accidentally smacking John lightly in the chest. John covered the hand with one of his own and squeezed.

“I’m going to get you some buprenorphine. It should help with the worst of the symptoms,” John said.

 

_Suboxone works by occupying the same nerve receptors that opiates formerly occupied, “tricking” the brain into delaying withdrawal and bringing relief from acute withdrawal symptoms. Suboxone contains added naloxone to make abuse via injection impossible._

 

Sherlock grunted a vague acknowledgement, so John rolled away to dig his phone out of his pocket. Sherlock might resent Mycroft’s interference, but John was happy to abuse it for Sherlock’s benefit. Especially now.

 **_sent_ ** _  
_ _Suboxone, 2mg/0.5mg sublingual tablets_

 **_sent_ ** _  
_ _I’m not authorized to write a script for it, but I’m certain that won’t be an issue for you. As soon as possible, please._

The reply was nearly instantaneous.

 **_Mycroft Holmes_ ** _  
_ _Are you certain you want to give him access to a medication with risk of dependence?_

John pursed his lips and glared at the phone, then stabbed out a response.

 **_sent_ ** _  
_ _I’m a bloody doctor, Mycroft. I never prescribe a medication unless I think the benefits outweigh the risks._

A quick glance to his right; Sherlock lay flat on his back, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes, his mouth twisted into a trembling frown. Some sick blend of pained, fearful, sad. Sherlock shook his head, rocking across the pillow, again and again. A small gasp—a sob? Yes, tiny, barely repressed sobs, hitching his breath every few seconds. John’s mouth wobbled, and he put his worst fears into his next text.

 **_sent_ ** _  
_ _To be honest, I’m more concerned about withdrawal-induced depression and risk of suicide. Relieving his symptoms might help._

 **_sent_ ** _  
_ _It’ll be administered under my direct supervision, and I’ll wean him off as soon as his symptoms will allow._

 **_sent_ ** _  
_ _Please_

 **_Mycroft Holmes_ ** _  
_ _Someone will be there in thirty minutes._

John let out a shuddering breath and dropped the phone to the bed. His own brain felt a bit drifty as well. Tea. Food. Water for Sherlock, who would certainly be dehydrated.

“I’m going to run down to Mrs. Hudson’s and Speedy’s. I’ll be back in ten minutes, tops. You’ll be okay?”

Sherlock let his hands fall away from his face and rolled his head to look at John with red, shuttered eyes.

“Aren’t you going to go home to Mary?”

John met his gaze and held it, refused to look away.

How many times had he looked away? How many times had their eyes met in a _way_ , heavy with significance and implication? And how many times had he been too cowardly to let that gaze catch, let it open him up and reveal?

“No,” John said. “I’m not.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted over his face, taking in everything, then squeezed his eyes shut in a grimace of pain.

“You should, John. You should go home to her.”

John huffed an unamused laugh and propped himself up on one elbow.

“Why do you keep trying to push me back to her? Why did you want me to forgive her? She _shot_ you, Sherlock. She lied. She was an assassin, for Christ’s sake. Why should I go back to that?”

“Because it’s what you want!” Sherlock half-shouted. He rolled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed and propped his elbows on his knees, hunching over to wrap his hands around the back of his head. His voice, when it came again, was muffled in his chest. “It’s what you’ve always wanted. Wife, kids, suburbs, normal life, _boring_.”

John snorted. “You know, for a genius you can be really thick sometimes.”

“It’s what you’ve always gone after—”

“And I was wrong. I don’t want that. No, I really, really don’t.”

Sherlock growled in frustration and scrubbed his hands over his curls, but when he spoke he was tired. Defeated. “You would have regretted not going back to her.”

_Take a chance. Be precise._

John breathed out, long and slow, and reached out a hand to trace over Sherlock’s bare, scarred back. Another secret. Another sacrifice, a pain endured without him. Another conversation they desperately needed to have. But that topic could wait; on this point, on the topic of Mary, John would be _precise_ if it killed him.

“No. I wouldn’t have regretted it.” He swallowed. “I _won’t_ regret it.”

A long moment passed in silence as John’s hand continued its slow pass over Sherlock’s knobby spine, tracing scars as if he could erase them with each pass of his fingers, absorb those ragged lines into the whorls of his fingerprints. A permanent part of his identity. Evidence at a crime scene.

“She’s dangerous, John. What about your child?”

John’s stomach lurched, but he nodded.

“I’ll have to be careful about it, make sure she’s safe from Mary. I’ll still be her father. If it looks like Mary’s going to be a problem, I’ll even take full custody, if you—”

 _Stop._ Too many assumptions in that thought. One thing at a time.

“I’m sure, Sherlock.” John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder, then let his hand fall away and rolled out of bed before the conversation could go any further. Too much all at once. Too much in Sherlock’s current state of mind. Get him better. Make him well.

_It’s your turn, Watson._

“I’ll be back in a bit. Maybe take a shower while I’m gone. Might help you feel better, yeah?”

A subdued “okay” was all he got in response. He slipped his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels once, then fled the room, chased out by unspoken longing and a heavy debt owed. _Time to start paying it back._

On his way through the kitchen, he stopped to take a quick inventory of the necessities. The whole flat felt wrong on so many levels, but the lack of tea kettle was an affront that could not be borne. One box, perched precariously on the edge of the kitchen table and marked _Fragile_ contained Sherlock’s microscope and some of the lab equipment he’d made such terrific messes with. John unpacked all of it into a messy heap on the table.

Better already.

Another box contained a truly Sherlockian assortment: pot lids, handcuffs, safety goggles, litmus paper, a centrifuge, and three tiny jars with a single dead bee in each. He put the handcuffs back in their customary drawer, added the safety goggles to the pile on the table, and shoved the box into a corner.

On his third try, John found the box he needed: tea kettle, sugar dish (empty), several of their (Sherlock’s) random mismatched mugs… but John’s RAMC mug was nowhere to be found. He’d never taken it with him to Mary’s, couldn’t bear the thought of it leaving 221B, but it wasn’t in the box with the rest.

Then he remembered the box in the sitting room. _To JW_.

_No. Not yet. I can’t._

John lined the mugs up perfectly straight on their shelf, plugged in the kettle, and left the flat with a messy combination of relief and unease. Leaving Sherlock alone, even for a few minutes, set John’s heart racing— _suicide, suicide, suicide_ —though the distance let his mind regain a bit of its former equilibrium.

He was certain of a few things:

He couldn’t stay with Mary.

221B was his home.

Sherlock loved him.

In what way, in what _precise_ way, he couldn’t be sure. But it didn’t matter, ultimately. Sherlock had sacrificed for him over and over and over. It meant something. It meant everything. He’d been oblivious and selfish.

If he were really honest, he’d been too busy shoving down his own feelings to notice. Denying. Hiding.  

John allowed himself a brief minute to breathe in the fresh afternoon air, to let new truths settle into their puzzle piece slots before diving into the busy closing time crowd at Speedy’s. 3:15 PM, just enough time to order fish and chips, some veggie risotto, and a cup of soup in case nothing else sat well on Sherlock’s stomach. He sat down at the frontmost table to wait for his order and was hardly surprised when the tip of an umbrella and a pair of bespoke shoes obscured his view of the floor. A faint rattle accompanied the drop of another prescription bag against the tabletop next to him.

“Anything _else_ I can get for you, Doctor?” Mycroft asked. He feigned put-upon annoyance, but John could see echoes of the Mycroft from the plane. The one who, defeated and shaken, had asked John to “look after him, please.” John gestured at the tiny table’s other end.

Mycroft sat, wary.

“We need to talk,” John said, then winced. Sounded like the start of a break up conversation. Though, in a way, it was.

“I can’t go back to Mary.”

“If you want to divorce your wife, then I suggest you get a lawyer and speak with her, not me. I’m not here to clean up your messes for you, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft sniffed haughtily and braced against his umbrella as if to rise. John cut him off.

“Mycroft, you know this isn’t a typical situation. You know what she is. What she’s done, what she’s... capable of. Are you seriously telling me you don’t want to handle the person who nearly killed your brother?”

Mycroft’s forbidding expression didn’t waver, though he remained in his seat. He watched John for a long, silent moment, considering.

“Of course I do. The only reason she isn’t locked away right now is because Sherlock _begged_ me not to. As always, your happiness was more important than his safety.” Mycroft leaned back in his chair and fixed him with a hard stare. “Are you certain this is the path you wish to take? You won’t be changing your mind once your daughter is born, begging for asylum for the mother of your child?”

John opened his mouth to protest, but Mycroft charged on. “And what of my dear brother? I do hope you aren’t entertaining any illusions of playing happy families and raising a baby in Baker Street. Do you truly think that would work?”

Direct hit. John’s heart gave a painful throb, and he closed his eyes against the torrent of half-formed desires he’d refused to acknowledge, barely glancing at them from the corner of his eye. He and Sherlock, cuddled together on the sofa watching bad telly with the baby sprawled across their laps. He and Sherlock, lying in bed together until the baby cried over the monitor, forcing him up the stairs to his old room. He and Sherlock—

“You will need to make a choice, Doctor,” Mycroft said. “Soon. Within 24 hours, in fact. And be certain about it. The Moriarty situation threatens to destabilize this already… complicated matter.”

John shook his head.

“There’s no choice, Mycroft. I can’t be with Mary. I’ve been wrong. I’ve been _so_ wrong, and I—” He swallowed again, looked away. “I can’t.”

He and Sherlock would make their own way. They would figure it out. He’d move into 221C with his daughter if he had to. Whatever it took to keep both of them in his life. Maybe, if he were truly lucky, Sherlock would surprise them all and take to fatherhood with his usual stunning competence. But all of it depended on how the next few steps played out.

“Can you arrange for an expedited paternity test?”

Mycroft blinked. “I can, if you can get her to agree to a sample collection. You have… doubts?”

John barked a harsh laugh. “She lied about everything else. Why not that, too? We were always careful. I have to know.”

Mycroft nodded, his expression somewhat softer despite his words. “I will do this, Doctor Watson, but not for you. I will do it for Sherlock. But I’m not going to just sweep in and make the whole thing go away. I will position my people. You will have to be the one to end things with her.”

“Yes,” John agreed. “Tomorrow afternoon. She only works a half day on Mondays. I’ll meet her at her flat after work. Do it then.”

“Very well. I’ll see to the rest.”

The woman behind the counter called John’s name, so he scooped up the prescription bag and got to his feet, Mycroft doing the same with more elegant grace across from him. They looked at each other for a long moment before Mycroft sighed and tapped his umbrella on the ground twice.

“I do hope you know what you’re doing. Be careful with him, Doctor.”

John nodded, and Mycroft left without another word.

_I’ll make this right._

_I’ll do what I should have done from the start._

* * *

 

John hurried to check on Sherlock the second he set foot in the flat, only to find the man struggling into a fresh vest as it clung steadfastly to his damp body. John averted his wandering eyes. The shower did seem to have refreshed him a bit, though the second he was fully dressed he flopped face-first back onto the bed and curled onto his side, the perfect image of a stroppy detective without a case. It was a cover, of course, but one familiar enough that the corner of John’s mouth tugged ever so slightly upward. _Git_.

With his worry temporarily assuaged, he set about his tasks. Medication first; Sherlock wouldn’t likely have much luck eating until his withdrawal symptoms eased enough for his stomach to settle. He took out the bottle, carefully cut one of the tablets in half, then dug into another packed box for a water glass and filled it under the tap. Back in the bedroom, he set both down on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed, resting a hand on Sherlock’s hip.

“Hey, Sherlock, can you wake up for me for a bit?”

Sherlock turned onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow with a groan, then peeked out with one eye.

“Why would I do such a thing?”

John felt it like a stab to the gut.

Sherlock _meant_ ‘why would he _wake up when he’s so exhausted’_ , of course, but John’s brain ricocheted down a completely different path: _suicide suicide why would you do such a thing why Sherlock why would you—STOP._

John pushed at Sherlock’s hip to get him to roll over, then helped him sit up.

“Here, drink this,” he said, passing him the water glass. “You’re probably dehydrated, and you’ll need your mouth wet enough to dissolve the tablet.”

Sherlock drained the whole glass as ordered, then eyed the half-pill John offered him.

“Hold this under your tongue until it’s completely dissolved. Should take less than ten minutes. Do _not_ swallow it. We’re going to start with this and give it an hour or two, see how you’re doing, then add more. Okay?”

Sherlock mumbled something recalcitrant, but popped the pill under his tongue as ordered.

“Thanks,” John murmured with a quick squeeze of Sherlock’s knee. “I’m going to put on the kettle and take care of a few things. Be back in a few.”

It had been quite a task to procure tea, milk, and sugar from Mrs. Hudson without engaging in a drawn out discussion of Sherlock’s fate, but he’d managed with a battery of doctorly excuses and a healthy dose of his trademark prickliness. He filled the kettle and set it to boil, then prepared their two mugs side by side, just like before. It had only been a week, after all. The muscle memory still carried his fingers from task to task, easy as breathing.

_He is alive, and we are okay._

_We’re home._

While he waited for the kettle to boil, John took out his phone and turned it over in his hand a few times.

Mary.

He looked inside himself, analyzed and prodded, but found no trace of conflict or regret. The decision was easy. No choice at all, as he’d said. His forgiveness had been a lie from the start.

He opened a new text message.

 **_sent_ ** _  
_ _I’m helping Sherlock through suboxone induction for the next 24 hours or so, but I’ll be by tomorrow afternoon when you get off work so we can talk._

 _Read 15:35_ appeared below the message a moment later, but no ellipsis of a forthcoming reply ever appeared. Thank God. John rubbed a hand over his face and turned his phone off. He didn’t need or want to talk to anyone who wasn’t already inside 221B. It was their fortress, and though every sound echoed off bare, scarred wooden floors, it would hold them all the same, guarded from the outside world. In 221B, they were John and Sherlock, their most essential selves.

Maybe a little reminder of that would help Sherlock recover.

The television rested like a shadow in one corner of the sitting room, several boxes of books and files piled around it, and John was struck with an idea. He cleared the boxes, stacking them haphazardly next to his chair, then hauled the flatscreen against his chest and carried it into Sherlock’s bedroom, his footsteps over-loud in the emptiness. Once inside, he set it down on the chair in the corner next to Sherlock’s wardrobe and angled it toward the bed. Sherlock made an inquiring noise, but didn’t open his mouth—good.

“Figured we could distract ourselves with some crap telly,” John said, shifting another box aside to access the power outlet. A faint click from the kitchen called him back, and John finished preparing their tea—milk, sugar, tea bags out, the most British of solutions to an excess of suppressed emotion. John carried the lot of it into the bedroom along with the food from Speedy’s.

“All gone?” John asked, taking up the empty water glass on the bedside table and replacing it with tea and food. Sherlock nodded and poked at the fish and chips, though judging from the protective hand resting over his belly it wasn’t likely to work out. John ducked into the bathroom to refill the glass from the tap and studiously avoided his reflection. He was transparent to Sherlock on the best of days, but now, after everything, John felt it spilling out from every glance, written bold in every line around his mouth. Pain, regret, worry, yes, but also… longing. Hope.

John shut off the tap and took a shuddering breath. Sherlock needed the practical side of his love at the moment, not the weight of it. He returned to the room and handed the glass over.

“Stay hydrated,” he said, curt.

“Yes, Mummy,” Sherlock shot back with barely a flicker of his usual rancor.

He sipped half-heartedly at his soup while John shoveled risotto into his mouth, scrolling through their Netflix queue until he finally gave up and put on a Bond film they’d both seen at least twice. It was only for distraction anyway.

John took Sherlock’s pulse every ten minutes, got out his stethoscope and listened to his heart and lungs over and over. The suboxone was taking effect, judging by the slowly unspooling tension between Sherlock’s eyebrows, the gradual creep of his vital signs toward normal ranges, but another half tablet would likely be necessary. Eventually, John gave up timing his vital recordings and lay down beside Sherlock, one eartip of the stethoscope in his ear, the diaphragm over Sherlock’s heart, and two of his fingers firm on the pulse point in Sherlock’s wrist. Tomorrow, if all went well with the medication, he’d likely be well enough to stay awake and would need a better distraction.

John had plenty of distraction to provide.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the gunfire on the telly.

Sherlock hummed an acknowledgement. John took a breath. Steadied his nerves.

“We need to talk. Tomorrow. As soon as you feel up to it.”

Sherlock let out an annoyed huff. “Really, John. Must we?”

_Suicide, suicide, suicide. The fall. The shot. The wedding. The fire. Everything._

_Everything._

“Yes. We really do, Sherlock. For once in our bloody lives, we need to actually talk.”

“Remind me to sleep in late, then,” Sherlock said, sounding halfway to sleep already. John risked a glance at his expression; sure enough, his eyes were shut, his face turned toward John like he wanted to roll onto his side but wouldn’t allow it.

John relaxed, letting the throb of Sherlock’s pulse under his fingers and the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart through the stethoscope calm his racing thoughts.

_Tomorrow._

_Tomorrow, we will be precise._

And while John rehearsed a hundred different ways to say “I love you” in his mind, Sherlock finally did roll over in his sleep, tucking himself into John’s side with a contented sigh.

“Always meant to say, John,” he murmured on a sleepy exhalation, half awake and half in a dream.

John leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss to the top of Sherlock’s still-damp curls.

“I know, love.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to delete the poem excerpt from this chapter, but check out The Failed Romantic Contemplates Suicide by Jeff Mann sometime. The parallels with Sherlock are jaw dropping. 
> 
> Thanks as always to wiscolina for beta reading.

 

Poem: The Failed Romantic Contemplates Suicide by Jeff Mann 

 

 

* * *

 

John set Billy the Skull atop the mantel and felt a piece of himself slot back into place.

Home had always been more about people than things for him, but when the person was Sherlock Holmes, it was hard to separate the person from the microbes and microscopes, the morbid trinkets and ephemera that surrounded him like a whirlwind of data spilled straight from his chaotic mind. A mind as self-destructive as it was beautiful.

What a difference a night of real sleep could make to that mind.

Sherlock was in the shower, still nursing a headache and fighting the black weight of depression, but physically better than he’d been since before the plane. The buprenorphine had worked exactly as intended—relief from the opioid withdrawal symptoms to the point where Sherlock was very nearly functional again, though John regretted that he couldn’t do the same for the cocaine withdrawal. Distraction, sunlight, exercise—he’d make sure Sherlock got through the day, through the cravings and hopelessness and the toxicity of his own thoughts.

As soon as Sherlock padded into the kitchen, hair damp and in fresh pyjamas, his eyes snapped to John, then flitted around the flat: half-empty boxes, stacks of unfiled papers, headphones on the bison skull. Without a word, he moved to a pile of boxes by the sofa and opened the top one, removing handful after handful of (probably stolen) police files.

“Tea?” John asked, rubbing a hand up Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock stiffened minutely, then relaxed into the touch, just as he had in bed. _In bed._

He nodded. “Toast?”

John quirked a smile, and made tea and toast for two.  

They worked side-by-side for two hours, in near silence that grew progressively more comfortable as the sun rose and London came awake on the street below. Empty dust outlines were filled as items returned to their former homes, tea and toast were consumed, and every piece put back felt like another brick in the wall, rebuilding their fortress. Just the two of them against the rest of the world. At home, together.

At last.

John kept a close eye on Sherlock throughout, watching for signs of exhaustion or discomfort, but the medication seemed to have restored Sherlock’s mastery over his transport. The only clue to his lingering symptoms was his reticence; when Sherlock snapped at John for daring to attempt to organize his books, John breathed his first true sigh of relief in days.

_He’ll be okay._

_We’ll be okay._

Maybe it was time to talk.

“I’ve been thinking about it, you know,” John said.

“You should probably leave the thinking to me,” Sherlock shot back, but without venom. He stared at the bookshelf by the window for a long moment, then rearranged a few knick knacks for no outwardly logical reason.

John pushed on, undeterred. “That was a suicide attempt. I know one when I see one.”

His mouth seized at the words spoken aloud, but he made no attempt to soften them. Sherlock spoke to the bookshelf in low tones, keeping his back to John.

“It was a suicide mission,” he said, gesturing to a pile of still-sealed boxes. “Obviously. Wouldn’t have made a difference.”

“Wouldn’t have—”

John choked on the words, hot tears already pressing hard around his eyes. _Well, that didn’t take long._ He took a slow, deep breath through his nose and carefully placed a shadowbox of dead, pinned butterflies atop the display case in the corner, then gripped the edge of the shelf with white knuckles.

“You fight, Sherlock,” he said, his voice like sandpaper. “You stay alive and hope for a chance. You try to come back to—”

John sensed more than heard Sherlock’s approach; some combination of faint breeze, the whisper of dressing gown, the slight bend of a floor board, or some unknowable electric connection. He forced himself not to tense, to keep his body language open, and turned to half-face Sherlock. They _needed_ this conversation.

_Let it happen. Don’t run. Don’t shut down._

“There _was_ no chance to hope for, John,” Sherlock said. “It was my sentence. It was the mission or life in prison. If by some miracle I survived, they’d give me another assignment, and another, and if it came down to it, another operative would have ensured I didn’t make it back. Prison was never an option for me. I would have gone mad. My only real choice was to return to the place where I was kidnapped and tortured a year ago, or to make my own… I preferred…”

He trailed off, pursed his lips, then glanced at John. That answered the question about the scars, then. John squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed past the ache in his throat, and his hands moved of their own volition. Cool satin under his fingers, cotton under that, and beneath it all, John imagined he could feel the ridges, pits, ragged edges of scars burning into his fingertips, telling the story of time so horrible Sherlock would rather die, rather _kill himself_ , than experience it again.

He opened his eyes and found pale green staring right back at him, inches from his own. His one hand, curled around Sherlock’s back to drag over hidden scars, pulled tighter until his forehead could tip against Sherlock’s shoulder… and he breathed.

_Breathe._

“Was this your first attempt?” he finally managed to ask.

A long pause, and John silently urged him, _Don’t lie to me, not now, not about this._

“...the first in a long time.”

John pressed his face harder against Sherlock’s shoulder, but nodded. Touching outside of the bed, outside of Sherlock’s need for comfort during withdrawal, was still a bit strange, but absolutely necessary. Sherlock, under his hands, solid and real and warm. Alive.

“Do you still…?”

He couldn’t finish the question.

“No,” Sherlock rushed to assure him. “Well, it’s just brain chemistry now, just a withdrawal symptom. My brain is saying it wished I succeeded, but I don’t want that. Now that I have the option to live, I don’t want to die. I don’t _want_ to die, John.”

His voice broke at the end, and his arms came up to wrap around John’s waist, pull him close.

“I really thought that was it. I thought I was never going to see you again. I wouldn’t do that to— I couldn’t—”

He huffed into the curve of John’s neck, frustrated. John took pity. He drew a hand slowly over Sherlock’s back in a gentle rhythm and steered the conversation back before Sherlock could withdraw.

“Mycroft said you were already high when you got on the plane.”

Direct hit; Sherlock pulled back and scoffed.

“Mycroft likes to think he knows more than he does. He thinks pulling me out of a few gutters makes him some kind of expert.” He pursed his lips, then nodded, as if coming to a decision. His eyes flickered over to John’s, then away again, skittish.

“I... wanted to be coherent when I said goodbye to you. I didn’t want you to remember me that way. Mycroft never would have told you what happened. He would have told you I’d been killed in action. You’d never have known.”

John let his hand fall away from Sherlock, suddenly needing distance. He propped his hands on his hips and spoke to Sherlock’s chest.

“So you decided to… do that. You took all the drugs, then got out your phone and… and you pulled up my blog. My post from—”

“The day we met.”

_And isn’t that telling? The fire, the wedding, the fall, the shot, and he wanted his last coherent thoughts on this Earth to be—_

“And then you got the call about Moriarty? And the mind palace case…?”

“It was like when I got shot. It was my mind’s way of helping me stay alive.”

John’s mouth went hard.

“Forget it, John,” Sherlock said, obviously misinterpreting the change. “If the choice was to die with the memory of you fresh in my mind versus a vicious death six months later when I could barely—”

“You need to stop leaving me!” John snapped.

“You left me, too,” Sherlock shot back, then clicked his mouth shut as if he hadn’t intended to say it.

And it was like a bucket of cold water, so plainly stated.

_Breathe._

“You’re right,” John said, quiet and rough. “I did. And I’m sorry. I regret it, and I’m fixing it.”

Sherlock looked at the floor, then at the fireplace. Anywhere but at John.

“You…”

“I was serious yesterday, Sherlock. I meant it. I’m leaving her. I won’t regret it.”

 _Be precise_.

Sherlock blinked, finally met John’s eyes, all soft, confused, hopeful, unsure.

“John…” he said, anxiety threading through his voice. “There’s something…”

Then the front door opened and shut downstairs, and the sound of tread on the steps jolted them apart with wide eyes. Heavy, unbalanced—not Mrs. Hudson.

Mary appeared in the open doorway of the flat, a bit out of breath from the climb, but cold and hard all the same. Pregnancy did nothing to diminish the crackle of dangerous energy about her, same as the night in the empty house, as she studied their proximity, their expressions, sharp eyes missing nothing.

“I took your spare key,” she said with studied ease. “Hope you don’t mind, _husband,_ but I decided not to just wait around until you had time for me later.”

“Mary, this isn’t a good time. Sherlock is still—”

“Oh, he looks just _fine_ to me, John. Seems like you’ve been taking _very_ good care of him.”

John stepped around the coffee table and opened his mouth to fire back, but Mary waved him off.

“No, don’t worry, John, I think this’ll be short, don’t you think? Let’s jump straight to the point. We both know you only married me for one reason.”

“Because I loved you? Because I thought you were someone else?”

“Because _he_ wasn’t around,” she said, and pointed a violent stab at Sherlock.

It was like a bomb going off. The first direct address of a topic they’d all so carefully avoided, defined by the space they left around it.

Mary, pleased with the effect, pressed on.

“So don’t you dare pin this entire thing on me. Yes, I’m an assassin, a mercenary, but you’re no saint either, John Watson.” Her voice was hard and controlled, but even her professional mask couldn’t completely cover the hurt. “I was never anything more than a substitute, and once he came back I should have known I never had a chance. We should never have gotten married.”

John swallowed, then nodded. “Well, at least we agree on that point.”

Mary’s careful facade flickered, just for a second, then smoothed out. “Well, that’s that, then. Don’t worry about your daughter. I’ve had a job offer, and it’s a good one. I’ll have no trouble supporting us both. See? Quick and easy. No need to draw things out.”

Her gaze slid to Sherlock and burned like a laser sight into the center of his forehead. “He’s all yours.”

She turned and made her ponderous way down the stairs. John made no move to stop her. As soon as she was on the ground floor landing, Sherlock flew to his side.

“John, she’s going to—”

“Don’t. Mycroft has it under control. She’s probably already in a creepy black car, on her way—”

His mobile chimed.

 **Mycroft Holmes** **  
** _Target has been taken into custody. Paternity test will be expedited. Await further instructions._

John flipped the phone around to show Sherlock, then slipped it back into his pocket and paced across the room, hands on his hips again. Sherlock huffed at the mere mention of Mycroft, but didn’t comment—a warning if there ever were one. A missed opportunity for a potshot at Mycroft told John more than anything that Sherlock was off-balance.

John was adrift, too.

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

_I didn’t even love her anymore._

_It's not over yet, she'll never let it be over so easily but..._

_Why is this so…_

Sherlock flopped into his armchair, drew his knees up to his chest and pressed his forehead against them. After a long, silent moment, his muffled voice drifted from the hollow space between.

“Are we not going to talk about this John?”

John’s heart ached at the vulnerability there, the tentative reach that must have cost Sherlock so much.

“Of course,” he said. “Of course we are. If you want to. And if you want me to leave, I’ll do that, too.”

“No! No. Stay. Please.”

“Okay. Well. Good.” He nodded. “Good.”

_Be precise._

“Because I have a lot to say.”

Sherlock lifted his head and looked at John with those wide eyes, so achingly hopeful and resigned at the same time, and John’s heart gave a painful throb. They needed to move forward. _It’s time._

_It’s time._

“Come on. Let’s go for a walk. Get you some sun. It’ll be good for your symptoms.”

He held out a hand to Sherlock and hauled him out of his chair, catching him when he wobbled a bit. “And we’ll… talk about some things. Okay?”

Sherlock smiled, just a bit, and squeezed John’s hand before he let it fall.

“Okay, John.”

He reached up and adjusted Billy the Skull on the mantel, then gave him an affectionate pat and disappeared into the bedroom to change. John watched him go, and let the thrum of adrenaline-danger-excitement-anxiety spread over his skin, to the tip of every finger. Muscles at full readiness, disaster response engaged, fight-or-flight, ready to face anything.

Anything.

_It’s time._

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to wiscolina for the beta read.

 

O YOU whom I often and silently come where you are that I may be with you,  
As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,   
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me.

      — Walt Whitman (1819–1892)

 

* * *

  


Out in the sunlight, John could almost pretend. They’d walked together through the park on many sunny days before, the motion of aimless wandering a catalyst for Sherlock’s brain when John’s presence alone wasn’t enough. It could be any such day, a mystery just ahead and Lestrade on their heels, the maddening sensation of a solution just on the tip of the brain.

It could have been.

Instead, it was the day John left his wife. It was the day Mary had laid out in plain words what none of them had dared speak aloud before. Words like _substitute_ that implied so strongly that she may as well have said the true thing itself: John Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes, and he always had been. Even as he took vows to another, even as he left and ran and denied, he loved so fiercely that it broke through his toughest walls and made itself known to everyone who cared to look.

And Sherlock Holmes, with his flat full of sealed boxes, with his bullet hole and lingering burn scars, was almost certainly in love with John Watson as well.

They walked close, hands in their pockets, their shoulders brushing every few steps. It was a slow dance, a magnetic pull, a build-up that John, for once, did nothing to diffuse. He leaned into it, soaked in the warmth of Sherlock’s body and the thrumming possibility of the last few minutes when everything was still unspoken.

_It’s time. Be precise._

John opened his mouth to speak on three separate occasions, but each time, the brush of Sherlock’s shoulder against his drove the courage from his heart. To lose that sweet tension, everything it stood for, everything it promised, to take that final step—

“Move back in with me,” Sherlock said, like a dash of ice water.

John startled.

Blinked.

Blinked again.

“Please,” Sherlock added.

“I…”

“You’ll need someplace to stay. You could go to Greg and he’d be accommodating, though considering his own recent divorce you might find the company a bit dour, and he’ll insist on _talking_ about his own divorce at length, which will drive you to drinking within hours, and you’ve been staying at Baker Street anyway and you’re much more comfortable there and…” He finally paused in his litany, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his otherwise impassive face. “I want you to. Just. Stay.”

Leave it to Sherlock to bull rush right into the topic while John, stunned and terrified, clenched his jaw and walked his next few steps with his eyes closed. His heart hammered, a panicked rhythm, heavy and suffocating in his throat.

It was one thing to walk toward the precipice and see it coming; another altogether to be unceremoniously shoved over the edge.

Once again, Sherlock took the risk. Sherlock put himself on the line. Sherlock did what John could not.

_The shot, the wedding, the fire, the fall._

_Get it together, Watson._

_It’s time._

John stopped at the side of the lake and looked out over the water.

“Are you sure that’s what you want? We’re… I don’t know if you…” He paused, regrouped, took a breath. “Mary and I need to divorce, and I’m going to have a baby with me, probably, unless that was a lie too. I’m a package deal now, and I know that’s… complicated. And if I come home, I want to be completely free of Mary. Nothing else standing in the way, and… and I want you to want that, too. So. If you don’t then just—”

“I do,” Sherlock cut in. “I do, John.”

John swallowed hard at the painfully earnest note in his voice. “Even with the baby? I can’t imagine you ever thought you’d be sharing your flat with a screaming infant. If you don’t… it’s okay if…”

Sherlock withdrew his phone from his pocket and unlocked it. John sighed internally. So much for that conversation. Should have expected Sherlock would be distracted by the first—

Then the phone was thrust into John’s hands. He looked down at it, puzzled.

“Your Kindle app?”

 _"Look,_ John,” Sherlock said, exasperated.

And so he looked. He looked for as long as he could until his vision went blurry.

Sherlock’s kindle bookshelf was an eclectic mess of esoteric topics, most books only partially read. Seven stood out from the rest, their progress trackers at 100%.

_What to Expect the First Year_

_The Pediatrician's Guide to Feeding Babies and Toddlers_

_The Baby Owner's Manual: Operating Instructions, Trouble-Shooting Tips, and Advice on First-Year Maintenance_

_Baby Sign Language Basics: Early Communication for Hearing Babies and Toddlers, New & Expanded Edition _

_The New Basics: A-to-Z Baby & Child Care for the Modern Parent _

_The Whole-Brain Child: 12 Revolutionary Strategies to Nurture Your Child's Developing Mind_

_Parent Hacks: 134 Genius Shortcuts for Life with Kids_

“I know you can’t learn how to care for a child from a book, of course,” Sherlock began, “and I have no practical experience, but I… she…”

John blew out a hard breath and let it end on a wobbly chuckle, shaking his head at himself. He handed the phone back with a squeeze of Sherlock’s fingers.

_God, this man. This wonderful, beautiful, amazing man._

_Do better, John Watson._

“Look, Sherlock, I’m just going to say it. Okay? Because we’re still talking around it after all this, and… I’m just going to say it.”

He tugged at the open edges of Sherlock’s coat, gripped the dark wool in his fists and kept his eyes leveled at Sherlock’s chest for the space of two long breaths. Then he lifted his gaze.

“God, Sherlock…”

“John, there’s something I always meant—”

“No, let me. Please,” John insisted, pained. “You’ve done so much for me, Sherlock. You’ve done everything for me. Let me do this for you.”

He took a breath, tried in vain to make the words pass from thought to sound, from heart to tongue, and shook his head.

“I’ve been in love with you for so long, and it’s so automatic to hide it now, it’s like I’ve… forgotten how to let it…”

But Sherlock, whose entire face had relaxed at the word _love,_ lay his hands at John’s waist and pulled him a step closer.

“I think you’re doing fine,” he said, his eyes shining.

And John laughed. Just a small one, more smile than sound, but it was enough. And it was so easy after that. He pulled him down, pressed their foreheads together and threaded his fingers through dark curls.

_It’s time._

“God, how I love you, Sherlock,” he said, as natural as breathing. “I’ve loved you from the beginning and I’ve never stopped.”

Sherlock’s face broke out into a grin even as his breath hitched once, twice. He let the words hang in the air for a moment, let them have their own space and time, before he nudged his nose against John’s and spoke his own confession.

“Not a day goes by that I don’t regret what I said at Angelo’s that first night,” he said. “Married to my work, _please._ If I’d not been an idiot, I might have been married to _you_ by now.”

John’s heart, which had stopped at the word _regret,_ jolted back to joyous, disbelieving life.

“I wasn’t ready for you then, John, and I’m sorry. I’m ready for you now. I’ve loved you, I love you, and I will love you. John Watson,” he said, as if relishing the feel of John’s name on his tongue. “If you’ll have me.”

‘If I’ll—Christ, Sherlock, I should be begging you to have _me.”_

“Ridiculous.” Sherlock lifted a hand to John’s cheek with a small smile and pulled back just far enough to look into his eyes. His mouth parted, and he licked his lips and looked at John’s mouth.

“John… can I…”

John swayed on the spot and let out a pained little sound.

“God, I want to. I’ve wanted to for so long,” he rasped. Their proximity was dizzying, electrifying, every nerve on alert, every hair standing on end, needing, _needing it._

He pulled back. Took a breath.

“I want to be all yours when we do,” he forced out, gathering the remains of his self-control. “There’s still Mary, right now. Let’s get clear of everything, have a completely fresh start that’s just about us.”

And he pressed close, dragged his lips over that sharp cheekbone and felt Sherlock’s jaw drop open under his mouth, felt his harsh breath on his shoulder.

“Let’s call Mycroft, then,” Sherlock breathed. “He can take care of it.”

John huffed a laugh against Sherlock’s cheek. “Mark the day, Sherlock Holmes voluntarily offered to call his brother for help.”

“You understand how dire the matter is, then,” Sherlock replied, turning his lips to John’s jawline, brow, cheek, _so close._

“I do,” John gasped, breathless. “Trust me, I really do.”

It took all of John’s strength to put a hand on Sherlock’s chest and push him back, put a little distance between them so he could reign himself in and make the kinds of choices he knew were for the best.

“I’m serious, though, Sherlock,” he said. “You’re not out of the woods yet, and I still need to look after you. We’re heading to Bart’s next so Molly can check your kidney functioning. And… Sherlock, you need to talk to… someone professional.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“No, I mean it. I’ve already called and made an appointment for myself. I’ll do the same for you, if you want. The fact that you attempted this terrifies me, and the fact that it isn’t the first time makes it… and the drugs, and the withdrawal… ”

“Never again, John, I swear—”

“I know.” John dragged his hand down Sherlock’s chest to rest at his hip. “I know that. But this kind of thing doesn’t just go away overnight, and I know you know that. Even now that we… that we’re… doing this, now. I just want to make sure we’re both okay. Okay?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, his eyes on John’s for a long moment. He nodded.

“Only Ella.”

“It’s not ethical for her to see us both.”

“Ella or no one.”

John sighed. “Fine. I’ll make the appointment for you and explain. _And_ I’ll call Mycroft, see what I can do about… this whole thing.”

“Call today.”

“I will.” He pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, letting the sweet anticipation build between them, then leaned back. “Come on, let’s get to Bart’s and I’ll call on the way, yeah?”

Sherlock took John’s hand and brought it to his lips, brushed feather-light kisses over the back, each faint contact a rush of heat and dizzying feeling that battered at John’s resolve, begged him to seal their mouths together and breathe life into their new future.

He turned Sherlock’s hands over in his instead, and returned light kisses over Sherlock’s fading burn scars.

“Let’s go, love,” he said, tugging at their joined hands.

Sherlock gave him the faintest smile.

“You were right, Doctor,” he murmured. “This walk did wonders for my symptoms.”

True enough, but John couldn’t shake the lingering worry, the sensation of Sherlock’s pulse slowing under his fingers, Sherlock’s shallow breaths on his neck. There were no magic solutions in life, not even the chance at something powerful, something they’d both given up on long ago. There was no sure, instant cure for depression, for addiction, for suicidal ideation.

But for the first time, with their fingers intertwined under the bright winter sun, John allowed himself to acknowledge his fleeting, half-formed desires.

Mornings at Baker Street, Sherlock’s curls spread over his pillow. Afternoon tea with Mrs. Hudson, his daughter making a mess of the biscuits. Cases, adrenaline, Sherlock running by his side. His child in Sherlock’s arms. A family.

They could love Sherlock together, he and his little one.  

Assuming he _had_ a child at all.

John pulled out his phone and called Mycroft.

Sherlock had gotten them this far. John would take them the rest of the way.

 

  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that the chapter count has gone up. *cough* Sorry if you were hoping this was the end. See end notes for additional important things. Thanks as always to wiscolina for the beta!

 

"But we already are exactly who we are supposed to be."

\- _Pride_ by Joanna Hoffman

 

* * *

  

John climbed the stairs to 221b with the plain white envelope in his hand, letting the sounds and smells of home draw him up and soothe his anxiously beating heart. After two weeks of tucking everything back into proper places, of filling cold bare walls and forlorn bookshelves, they were still nowhere near done. Their home had begun to take shape, a form both familiar and subtly different: all the same books and papers, the same seemingly random assortment of curios and oddities, and yet…

Perhaps it was only that John participated in the settling, this time around. At his first view of Baker Street six years ago, Sherlock had already moved in, both his clutter and his personality filling every crack in the floorboards and spot on the shelves. John had slotted in happily enough, winding himself around the big mess and bigger ego. But this time, as Sherlock’s things found their way out of boxes, John also brought over his things from the suburbs, and they wove together a life out of books and wires, socks and mismatched cutlery.

They talked about the things they unearthed, too. Sherlock’s Cambridge degrees and fencing trophies, his academic awards and judo certificate. John’s rugby jersey and a bone from med school, his grandfather’s broken watch and his military mementos. Things they wanted to remember and things they’d just as soon forget, all shared. _Together._

But as they unpacked, they left a gap, a shape defined by negative space. Room for a sweet possibility.

John clutched the envelope tighter. One piece of paper, two weeks in the making, could change their lives forever.

He took a deep breath and stepped into the sitting room.

Sherlock stood at the window, playing something longing and sweet on his violin, while Molly sat on the couch with a medical journal and a highlighter, her feet propped up on one of the many still-packed boxes. They both turned to look when John walked in, but something must have shown in his face, because Sherlock’s expression immediately snapped into focus.

“Time to go now, Molly, thank you, goodbye,” Sherlock said, rushed but not unkind.

John winced. “Sorry, Molly. We have a… thing. To handle.”

“Of course,” she said, waving away his apologies. She snapped her magazine closed and clipped the highlighter over the spine, already on her way out. “I’ll leave you to it, then. His latest lab results are on the table for you. Kidney functioning looks good. I’m here if you need anything else, okay?”

John summoned a half-hearted smile. “We appreciate it.”

The second the front door closed downstairs, Sherlock set down his violin and swept over to John. One hand immediately found its way to John’s upper arm, Sherlock’s default gesture of affection. Their resolve to wait grew more difficult to maintain by the day, but new touches and closeness provided some measure of comfort. John let his forehead fall against Sherlock’s shoulder and just breathed for a long moment.

“What is it?” Sherlock said with a little squeeze of his arm.

John swallowed hard. No point in wasting time.

“Mary finally agreed to the paternity test. These are the results. Mycroft brought them to me at work.”

Sherlock grew impossibly still. “And? What does it say?”

John shook his head. “I haven’t looked yet. I thought we should… find out together. If we’re going to be parents.”

He looked up to gauge Sherlock’s reaction to that frank statement, but found only a small smile and soft eyes. John’s throat tightened.

“Sherlock, I… I know we’ve talked about this a hundred times, but I just have to…” John chewed on the inside of his lip, looked away. “You’re sure you want this with me? Really, really sure? You want _her?”_

A light touch at his jaw cut him off, turned him back to face Sherlock.

“I’m sure, John. I promise. To be honest…” He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze, a faint blush tinging his cheeks. “When you were staying here after I got shot, and I was reading all those books, I—”

He broke off and twitched the fingers of his right hand, then took a breath and rushed on. “Sometimes, I would imagine that it was us. That _we_ were expecting the child. And it was surprisingly… I…”

He stopped again, growled his frustration and surged forward, pressing his lips to John’s forehead. John gasped and clung to Sherlock’s wrists with the envelope crumpled in his hand, let the electric shock of it crash through him. Such a simple touch, barely anything, but after so long, they were so close—

“I want this with you, John,” Sherlock said in a fierce whisper. “I never thought I would, but with you…”

John returned the kiss over one sharp cheekbone and let his lips linger while he got himself under control. His eyes burned with the inevitable, but he fought to keep it together just a bit longer. Just one more moment.

He drew back and smoothed out the crumpled envelope, drew it between his fingers over and over until his heart calmed. The glue sealing it shut gave way easily, and John withdrew the single folded sheet inside. A steadying breath, then he met Sherlock’s gaze.

“Are you ready?”

Sherlock stood back and nodded, giving him space.

John nodded back, an acknowledgement, a thanks. One way or another, they were taking this step into a new reality. _Together._

John stood up straight, pushed his shoulders back, and unfolded the lab report.

_Probability of Paternity: 99.9996%_

John’s breath escaped in a great gust, and he met Sherlock’s gaze with wide eyes. Sherlock deduced it in an instant—a slow smile spread across his lips, and he started to laugh, rumbling, rolling chuckles that brought out John’s own higher laugh as he finally let the tears flow free. He launched himself at Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his neck, pressed his laughter into the softness of Sherlock’s dressing gown and let it all settle deep in his chest.

She was theirs.

“You need those divorce papers _now,”_ Sherlock murmured into John’s hair. “I’m feeling an extreme need to kiss the father of my child.”

John snorted, and his laughter redoubled. “That makes you sound pregnant.”

“One of the many lingual oddities that come with same sex parenting. We’ll figure it out.”

“Yes. We will.” John hummed and threaded a hand into Sherlock’s dark curls. “I think you need to call your parents. They’ll want to know they’re going to have a granddaughter.”

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock said. “Today, let’s just… keep it. For us.”

“Yes,” John agreed.

“And I want to be off the suboxone before she’s born. Let’s start the step down tomorrow.”

John drew back and frowned.

“Are you sure? You’ve been doing really well, and it’s not like it makes you a bad father to be taking medication. There’s no reason to stop if you still need it.”

Sherlock sat in his chair with his hands in thinking pose, his laugh lines smoothing into solemnity. “I’ve been talking it over with Ella. We both defer to your medical opinion, of course, but… she recommended that I see my doctor about antidepressants.”

“And start them before you’re off the sub, yeah,” John agreed. “With your history, I think you’re a good candidate for them. I don’t suppose I can convince you to see another doctor to prescribe them?”

“No. I trust your medical opinion, John.”

“It’s not about trust, it’s about ethics and…” John sighed. “Oh, fine, I’ll call Mycroft. I want to read up and double-check myself on interactions first, though, maybe get a second opinion.”

Sherlock smiled. “Take your time. But quite quickly, please. We have a lot of other things to think about now, after all.”

John paled. “Oh my god, we have to get _this flat_ ready for a baby. The flat we haven’t even finished unpacking, except for all your delicate equipment and toxic chemicals, of course _those_ are—”

“—going down to 221C. It’ll be fine, John. I’ve already started cleaning up down there.”

John’s heart gave a powerful pang that spread warmth to the tip of every finger and toe. He swept forward and fell to his knees beside Sherlock’s chair, took up his skilled, dexterous hands and pressed kisses to each knuckle and palm.

“We’re going to have a baby,” he whispered into the cup of Sherlock’s palm.

And for the first time since learning of her existence, John felt himself fill with hopeful anticipation, with light, breathless love for the child who would complete their home.

 

* * *

 

That night, John lay curled around Sherlock’s back, holding him through a bout of dark mood. No particular source, as was often the case with depression, though John had his suspicions. Healing cannot be done on demand, no matter how great the motivation, the ugly flip side to Sherlock’s earlier joy at their good news. A vicious cycle—the more he worried about being unwell, the more unwell he became. John ran a hand down Sherlock’s side from ribs to hip in a slow, hypnotic comfort, privately reviewing his mental catalog of antidepressants and drug interactions.

“Sherlock,” he finally asked. “Have you and Ella talked about…”

“Asking about my therapy sessions, John, really? That’s supposed to be private.” He didn’t truly sound annoyed, though, so John pressed on.

“You’re the one who wanted me to be your doctor. It’s my responsibility to understand where you’re at so I can choose the right medication and dosage.”

“Oh, that’s all, is it?”

“Of course not, Sherlock. I just…”

He sighed and rolled away, throwing an arm over his eyes. It was always easier to speak when he couldn’t see. “It terrifies me, this habit you have of sacrificing everything for me. Including your life, several times. And with a daughter in the picture, I can only imagine—”

“No, John. I know now that it’s better for me to… stay. That dying for you will cause you just as much pain as whatever I’m trying to save you from. And besides, now that I have you, and our daughter, I have more than enough reason to—”

A bolt of fear shot straight to John’s heart.

“Stop. Stop right there.”

He manhandled Sherlock until he turned to face him. He could barely make out the flash of Sherlock’s eyes in the dim light, but he focused on them, and gave voice to years of hurt and fear and love and want. “I don’t want you to live for me. And I don’t want you to live for her, either. You need to live for _you,_ Sherlock, because _you_ see the value in your own life.”

He brushed the curls off Sherlock’s forehead and traced a thumb down his cheek, along the line of his jaw. Precious. Invaluable.

“Don’t stay for me, Sherlock,” he whispered, withdrawing his touch. “Please. Stay for yourself.”

They were silent for a long moment. Sherlock shifted closer and reached a tentative hand across the pillow.

“That’s what Ella said, too. I’m working on it.”

It was barely a murmur, but John heard it.

“She’s actually right sometimes, you know,” he murmured. “I’ve found her pretty helpful this time around.”

“Me too.”

They lay there in the dark, their arms wrapped around each other in the bed they now shared, in the home they’d built and destroyed and rebuilt. John poured every ounce of his love into the glide of his hands and mouth, smoothing over the cracks and scars and damning evidence of uncaring use. Through six years of demons and ghosts they’d found each other, and John let the certainty of it settle once and for all into the deepest parts of his heart.

“Thank you for choosing me,” Sherlock whispered.

John tightened his hold and brushed his lips over curls, cheekbones, nose. “I always would have chosen you. I chose you the day we met. I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you.”

Sherlock hummed his dissent.

“We’re here now. Together.”

John pulled Sherlock’s head into the crook of his neck and breathed deep.

_Yes. Together._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My professional writing workload has officially become unmanageable, so I'm having to pull back from fandom for a while, take a bit of a hiatus. [See details here.](http://librarylock.tumblr.com/post/160345979927/lilos-2017-fics) I'll still be finishing this fic in the next 1-2 weeks, though!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO sorry for the delay. Drowning IRL. One more short epilogue and we'll be done.

 

[...]

No longer abash’d, (for in this secluded spot I can respond  
  as I would not dare elsewhere,)   
Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet   
  contains all the rest,   
Resolv’d to sing no songs to-day but those of manly   
  attachment,   
Projecting them along that substantial life,   
Bequeathing hence types of athletic love,   
Afternoon this delicious Ninth-month in my forty-first   
  year,   
I proceed for all who are or have been young men,   
To tell the secret of my nights and days,   
To celebrate the need of comrades.

 _Calamus [In Paths Untrodden]_ by Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

 

* * *

 

Mary sat completely unrestrained across the stainless steel table from John, and he couldn’t shake the crawling sensation of danger dragging fingernails down his spine.

The Holmes family solicitor sat at John’s side, sorting papers into piles and marking lines for signatures under Mycroft’s watchful eye. Four guards stood in the room with them, though Mycroft had ensured with his usual worrying vagueness that Mary wouldn’t be a danger to either John or the child she carried.

_At least Sherlock’s not here. He’s safe with Mrs. Hudson at home. This is fine._

And yet, every time he tried to look at her, his eyes slid away, as though they were protecting him from the painful sight. His soon-to-be ex-wife staring with cold, sharp eyes, the swell of her belly preventing her from sitting too close to the table. His child, inside that woman, being nourished and cradled by an assassin. He shivered. One week to go, then they’d all be free of her.

“Are we just going to sit here in silence?” Mary sneered. “Nothing to say to the mother of your child, John?”

John’s stomach turned. God, what was there to say? _Please don’t hurt my child? Please never contact me again_?

“What do you _want_ me to say?”

Mary gave a bitter laugh.

“I would _love_ to hear you admit some things out loud. Would you please? For me, John? You know what I want to hear.” She put on a syrupy sweet voice and batted her eyelashes, and it took everything John had not to recoil. He shot a look at Mycroft, who waved a hand from his place against the far wall.

“There are no recording devices in this room. You needn’t worry about anything you say being used against you later.”

The solicitor continued his shuffle, seemingly unaware of the charged atmosphere. Or deliberately unaware, perhaps, for plausible deniability. John clenched his jaw and leaned back in his chair, arms folded. What could it harm? Might even feel good.

“You were right,” he said, the words bitter on his tongue. “This was the world’s worst rebound relationship. I never would have dated you, much less married you, if Sherlock had still been alive.”

“And why, John? Why is that? Come on, give me the rest. Or can you still not say it?” she said. Goading him. Testing him.

He smiled. Not in anger, not in bitterness, just… let go of the tension in his shoulders, unclenched his fist, and smiled softly down at the table.

“Because I love him.”

The words hung in the silence, stark and bare. John glanced at Mycroft, who wore his own small smile, and pressed on.  

“Because I’m in love with Sherlock, and I always have been, and I was too much of a coward to do anything about it before he left. But you can be damn certain I’m not letting the chance slip away this time.”

“Oh please, John, don’t pretend you aren’t already bending him over every—”

Mycroft winced and covered his eyes, and John snapped.

“I’m not. We’re not, actually. Not until you and I are done here. I don’t want any of _this—”_ and he gestured between them, “tainting what I have with him.”

“Oh, how noble. I could have sworn you were ready to go for it that day I barged in. You looked so sweet, about to confess everything, but I didn’t feel like waiting around for you to break up with me. So sorry.”

John took a slow, even breath and fought back his temper. “And you? Don’t you have anything to say to me? You trying to gain some moral high ground here? You shot him, and he _died,_ and you _know_ what losing him—”

The solicitor cleared his throat.

“I think we’re ready to proceed, here, if we may?”

John snatched up the nearest pen and clicked it open. “Absolutely.”

With no protest from Mary, the solicitor began handing the forms over one by one. From his place against the wall, Mycroft explained the procedure.

“The first batch of papers is to void the marriage on the dual grounds of Mary Morstan’s false identity and criminal background. Typically there is a six week waiting period between the decree nisi and the decree absolute. You'll notice the forms are dated six weeks apart. I’ll be taking these straight to a colleague of mine after we’re done here to have them approved immediately.”

John scrawled his messy doctor’s signature on each form with a complicated weight in his chest. He didn’t want her. He didn’t miss her. Everything had been a lie between them. And here they were, signing away the last year of pain and frustration, whisking it away like dust on the mantle. A few pieces of paper, and a whole marriage no longer existed.

John passed each page to Mary as he finished without an ounce of regret.

“The second batch,” Mycroft continued, “deals with custody of the child. Legally, we are handling this like a surrogacy. Since a mother cannot sign her rights away until the child is six weeks old, we are dating these forms for March of this year. Mary has agreed to sign the forms now so they may be filed at the appropriate time without the need to consult her again. There are two forms here. The first one says Mary agrees to relinquish all parental rights over the child. The second grants full parental rights to Sherlock Holmes.”

The solicitor split off the last form and slipped it into an envelope, then passed it to John. “That one will need Mr. Holmes’ signature.”

“I’ll give it to him tonight,” John said, cradling the envelope in his hand like a delicate, precious thing.

Mary barked a harsh laugh, signed the last paper, and threw the pen down on the table. “You think you have everything tied up all neatly, don’t you? Well. Enjoy fucking Sherlock. I’ve got my own life to live.”

“In prison?” John asked.

Mary summoned a half-hearted sneer that nearly masked the trace of pain underneath. “We’ll see. Have a nice life, John Watson. You’re welcome for the daughter.”

She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet and the guards immediately flanked her, escorting her to the door. John’s heart clenched, and he stared resolutely down at the tabletop as his one-time wife was lead from the room. She’d saved him. She’d kept him alive. But with each fading footfall, the tension in his chest unraveled, bit by bit, the char flaking away from his damaged heart and leaving behind something fresh and raw.

He looked down at the envelope in his hand, smiled, and stood.

“Get me out of here?” he asked Mycroft.

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

John shook the solicitor’s hand, thanked him for his services, and followed Mycroft out into the early evening light as a free man.

 

* * *

 

John texted Sherlock to meet him at Angelo’s.

They hadn’t been out of the flat much since Sherlock began his recovery, other than their walks around the park when the weather cooperated. Sherlock’s moods had been erratic, and there were days when dragging himself out of bed was almost too much. Healing was ugly and difficult and slow, even for a man as effortlessly beautiful and brilliant as Sherlock. But he _was_ healing.

John sat in their booth and faced the door, the envelope with the parental order paperwork on the seat beside him. He ordered an appetizer and two glasses of champagne rather than a bottle—Sherlock was halfway off the suboxone, but mixing could still be problematic—and settled in to wait.

For his date.

He was sure he looked like a loon sitting alone at his table and grinning to himself, but he couldn’t be arsed to care.

Sherlock arrived only a few minutes later, and he took his seat beside John, back to the window, with a soft candle-lit smile. He nudged the toe of his shoe against John’s under the table and cast a significant glance at the champagne.

“So, we’re celebrating?” He leaned back and laid his arm across the low top of the booth, nonchalant, but his eyes were soft and hopeful.

John leaned back, too, and tangled his fingers together with Sherlock’s. “We’re celebrating. I have officially never been married. Voided. Just like that. I’m free.”

Sherlock picked up his champagne glass and waited for John to do the same, then clinked them together. “Well, not completely free. At least, I hope not.”

John’s heart warmed, filled to bursting.

“Yours,” he whispered. They shared a long, charged look, then sipped their champagne. The bright flavor and bubbles burst on John’s tongue, and he felt it through his whole body. Light, sparkling with anticipation, a heady rush.

“And, speaking of yours…” John picked the envelop up of the bench and slid it across the table. “There is absolutely no rush to make this decision, but Mycroft had Mary sign the papers today in case… you wanted.”

Sherlock snatched up the envelope and carefully withdrew the contents. His eyes darted over the pages and, to John’s alarm, quickly grew moist.

“Sherlock? Everything okay? You don’t have to…”

Sherlock cut him off by whipping a pen out of his coat pocket and signing with more careful precision than John had ever seen from the man who once tried to endorse a check by stabbing it. He stashed the pen, then blinked down at the papers for several minutes, a tiny smile slowly creeping onto his lips.

“We need to think about names,” Sherlock finally murmured, glancing up at John from beneath his lashes.

“Yes. We can sit down and come up with a list of first and middle names tomorrow. But for her last name, I think we should hyphenate it. Watson-Holmes, or the other way around, whichever.”

Sherlock’s smile grew wider, and he looked away, down at the papers on the table. “Watson-Holmes. Yes.”

He took John’s hand again and slowly brought it to his lips, meeting John’s gaze with heat in his eyes as he dragged his open mouth over the back of John’s hand. John’s breath hitched, grew faster, and he wrapped his fingers tighter around Sherlock’s… just as Angelo arrived with their appetizer. He let out a shuddering breath and nodded his thanks as Angelo set their appetizer between them, and Sherlock immediately dug in. His appetite had been alternately non-existent and ravenous, and tonight was a ravenous night.

Good. He’d need his strength. John had _plans._

They drifted closer and closer as they worked their way through the tangy flavors of tomato and basil, fingers sticky with balsamic vinegar reduction. By the time they cleared the plate, they were pressed together, knee to him to shoulder, each with an arm wrapped around the other. John wiped his fingers on his napkin and turned to ask Sherlock about ordering dinner—and froze.

Sherlock’s mouth was so close.

John licked his lips.

“Do it,” Sherlock whispered, leaning in to nudge at John’s nose with his own.

John traced his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, then shook his head.

“Mm, I think I want to kiss you for the first time in our home, yeah?”

That mouth curled at the corner, and John tore his eyes away from plush, teasing lips to meet Sherlock’s eyes, gone dark with intensity.

“John, I do hope you’re not planning to take this slow. You realize this time next week we could have a baby?” Sherlock’s hand dropped onto his leg and slid up, up, high on the inside of his thigh. “We need to have as much sex as possible, starting _right now_.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s wandering hand under the table and shivered.

“Well, maybe starting when we get _home_.” He was in very real danger of getting hard before they made it out of the restaurant, his head spinning from far more than the single glass of champagne. He was free, this was real, they were _together_ , and he was finally going to get his mouth on Sherlock Holmes.

He wanted to taste him _everywhere_.

Sherlock groaned in the back of his throat as if hearing every sweet, tender, filthy thought in John’s mind. He held John’s gaze and squeezed his leg under the table.  

“Then for God’s sake, John, let’s _go.”_

Sherlock launched himself from the booth and swept his coat over his shoulders, rocking impatiently from foot to foot as John followed, careful to bring the parental paperwork with them. He waved to Angelo on the way out the door, who called to them, “Done already? No more tonight?”

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and yanked him out the door. “Thank you, Angelo, but we have plans. Good night!”

John giggled and let himself be dragged to the curb, where Sherlock materialized a cab out of nowhere and bundled him into the back seat. They could have walked, but Sherlock looked ready to pounce, so John allowed the indulgence. The cab ride passed in a blur of bodies pressed together, mouths hovering mere inches apart, breathing the same air and wanting, _wanting_. John kissed the tip of Sherlock’s nose, his cheekbones, dragged his mouth over Sherlock’s jaw and bit, drawing groans and pleading and _Jooohn_.

Sherlock shoved John out of the cab the second it stopped and plastered himself to John’s back as he fumbled to get his key in the lock. They tumbled through the door and thrashed their way out of their coats, their hands colliding twice as they attempted to hang them up, sending them into fits of laugher.

John charged up the stairs after Sherlock and grabbed him around the waist from behind once they reached the landing. He turned Sherlock around and backed him into the sitting room, breathless at the intensity of Sherlock’s eyes, until they stood at the epicenter of everything, caught between their chairs where they shared their evenings, the desks where they shared their work, the kitchen where they shared their chaos, surrounded by all the artifacts of a life built together.

John buried his hands in Sherlock’s hair and pressed their foreheads together, taking in all the smells and sounds of home, of 221B and Sherlock.

_He’s done everything for you._

_The fire, the fall, the shot, the wedding._

_Give him everything in return._

_It’s time._

“Let me be perfectly precise, Sherlock,” John said, tracing the tip of his nose along Sherlock’s neck. “In case there’s any remaining doubt: I have been in love with you for years. 221B has always been my home. You are the father of my child. And I’m deeply sorry for what I’ve put you through, but I can promise you this. You are the rest of my life.”

Sherlock smiled against his temple and tightened his hold.

“You are the rest of my life,” he repeated back.

They stood together, cheek to cheek, on their dusty, threadbare rug, under the watchful eyes of the skulls and the smiley face and the bats and beetles and books. John leaned back to look into Sherlock’s eyes, to feel the sweet tension of _almost_ one last time… then he closed the distance and pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s. John let Sherlock’s kiss fill all the empty places within him, dig out old hopes dusty with disuse and carefully packed desires, let everything fall into its proper place. He pressed every last ounce of his overflowing, aching sweetness onto Sherlock’s lips, his tongue, his body, and loved, loved, loved.

_He is alive, and we are okay._

And when Sherlock tugged him back toward the bedroom, half-dressed and flushed, John kept their lips sealed together and went, free and wanting and ready. He took Sherlock to bed, wrapped him up in his arms, and for the first time let himself believe with his whole heart.

_We’re alive. We’re okay._

_We’re home._

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed this fic! Thank you again to Geometry for commissioning this fic, to wiscolina for beta reading and crisis handling, and to YOU for reading it. <3

 

John wasn’t sure what he expected from Sherlock in the last moments before their daughter’s birth, but Sherlock managed to cover all the possible bases. He sat in a chair and stared off into the distance, leapt to his feet and paced, clung to John with anxiety-fueled tension, then pulled away with wet eyes and an excited smile. His mood vacillated wildly from minute to minute, and John had mental whiplash. 

It was fine, though. Endearing, even. 

And a bit maddening.

The private room adjoining Mary’s was a luxury afforded by Mycroft, surely, but one John sincerely appreciated. Bland peach-painted walls, generic soothing artwork in cheap frames, an unused bed with frightening stirrup attachments—mildly terrifying in the sum of its parts, frankly. The chance to be alone with Sherlock, though, to have a moment away from their doting friends and family who waited out in the lobby, was precious. The chance to be there for their daughter’s birth despite Mary barring them from the delivery room, even moreso. 

When Sherlock leapt to his feet to pace for the fourth time, however, John followed. 

“Sherlock,  _ please,” _ John said, snagging him by the elbow. Sherlock’s whirled around and pinned John with a wide-eyed stare, opened his mouth to protest—

—then a wailing cry echoed from the next room over. 

“Oh my God,” John whispered, his eyes filling with tears. 

Sherlock blinked, then blinked again. “John…”

John grabbed Sherlock in a fierce hug and held him tight. “She’s here, she’s here, Sherlock, Jesus…”

Sherlock pressed his face to John’s temple and sucked in a shuddering breath. “John, I can’t do this, I always disappoint you, what if I—”

“Stop it.” John pulled back and looked Sherlock dead in the eye, then crashed their mouths together in a long, hard kiss. “You can do this.  _ We  _ can do this together. You love me, and you love her, yes?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. I do.”

John tightened his hold and pulled Sherlock closer, peppering kisses over his jaw and cheek. “Then you already have everything you need to be a great father. We’ll figure the rest out as we go.”

Sherlock stepped back and shoved his hands into his hair, gripping the curls at the roots, and John’s heart ached with love at the sight of his best friend, his partner, the love of his life, in full new-father-panic mode, listening intently to the squalling cries of their daughter in the next room. Any minute now.  

John took Sherlock by the hand and pressed a kiss to the tip of each finger, brushing his lips over the faint ridges of fingerprints, unique like everything else about him. Sherlock tasted of hospital, of sanitizer and the faintest hint of salt, the underlying flavor of his skin familiar on his tongue after the last week and a half. They’d spent quite a bit of time at the shops buying everything a baby could possibly want or need, but every available moment had been dedicated to their bed, touching, tasting, feeling, loving. They’d put down some much-needed roots in their relationship, but all throughout ran a constant undercurrent of anticipation. 

Their daughter.  _ Their _ daughter. 

They clung together for several long moments, listening to the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights, until a nurse opened the door adjoining the rooms. John’s heart leapt into his throat, and he crushed Sherlock’s hand in his own, his eyes wide.

“Is she…?”

The nurse smiled. “Are you ready to meet her?”

John looked to Sherlock, who gave a small nod. The nurse disappeared for a moment, then returned a moment later. 

With a tiny bundle in her arms. 

John let out a gust of breath like he’d been punched in the stomach. 

“John first,” Sherlock said, nudging him forward. The nurse transferred the bundle to John’s waiting arms, automatically assuming the position he and Sherlock had practiced obsessively over the last week. And then she was there, resting against his chest, her squinting blue eyes and tiny perfect nose and gentle breaths rising and falling against the suddenly crushing pressure in his chest.

“Sherlock,” he gasped, feeling the hot wetness in his eyes and needing to share the moment, feel him there. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from their daughter, but Sherlock’s arms came around him, his chin propped on John’s shoulder.

“Here,” he said, and dropped his hands to the buttons of John’s shirt. “Skin bonding, remember? Provides numerous benefits including improved...”

The buttons parted under Sherlock’s fingers as he recited a soothing litany of information until enough of John’s bare chest was exposed. He then unwrapped a bit of the soft blanket around the baby, pausing to trail one long finger down her pudgy arm, then moved around to John’s front. Together, they boxed her in, surrounded her with family and love as John cradled her to his bare chest and marveled in her every move, every little sound. Stunning. Perfect. 

It wasn’t until a wet drip hit his arm that John finally looked up to see Sherlock’s tear-streaked face, his expression awed and wrecked and utterly breathtaking as he stared down at their daughter with one hand cupped over her head. John leaned forward to nudge their noses together. 

“Hey,” he whispered with a gigantic grin. “We’re dads. We have a daughter.”

Sherlock huffed a quiet laugh. 

“Your powers of observation have truly evolved, John,” he said in the gentlest voice ever to pass those lips. He leaned down, brushed his lips over their daughter’s forehead, then John’s. They swayed together in silence for a long moment until the nurse cleared her throat. 

“Excuse me,” she said, regretful. “I hate to ask for her back, but we do still need to examine her and get her to breastfeed with… with the surrogate. We’ll bring her back right after. You should be able to take her home in a few hours. If you’ve decided on a name, I can bring you the paperwork in the meantime?”

Sherlock’s grip tightened on John’s biceps, and John immediately got the message. They executed their first ever transfer from arms to arms, then John stepped back to admire the most beautiful sight in the entire world: Sherlock Holmes, face painted in soft brushstrokes, cheeks flushed with healthy color, cradling his daughter and brushing his nose over her fuzzy head with his eyes closed.

“Willow,” John said. “Willow Katherine Watson-Holmes. We’ll take the papers.”

Sherlock grinned against Willow’s forehead and brushed his lips there, whispering the name into her soft skin. Before long, they’d introduce Willow to her grandparents, to Mrs. Hudson, to her godparents and her whole extended family. They’d all coo and cry and love her fiercely, but before long it would be time to go. 

And then they’d take her home.

Dusty books, expensive microscopes, countless case files, and alphabet blocks, stuffed animals, bright play mats. Formula mix in the cabinets, bags of thumbs in 221C’s freezer, bills stabbed to the mantle in the sitting room. Two armchairs in front of the fireplace, and a little animal-themed bouncer chair between them. Everything tucked in its proper spot—or improper, as was often the case—and all the dust settled. 

And with all the pieces finally in place, the living could truly begin.

“We have the perfect home for you, Willow,” John murmured. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and ran a hand over their daughter’s tiny head, reverent, his heart achingly full.

“And do you know what? I think you’re going to love it.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Willow = William, and Katherine for the name John wanted to use in T6T, which I headcanon as his mother’s name.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr at [librarylock](http://librarylock.tumblr.com) for fic updates and general shenanigans.


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